


The Matter of Lot 19

by pagerunner



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 04:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagerunner/pseuds/pagerunner
Summary: Keyleth returns to Whitestone after many, many years to see about a unique and precious clock that's up for auction. But she's not the only one intending to bid...and her competitors might not only be interested because of the clock's connection to a certain legendary de Rolo. Future fic, set significantly after campaign 1.





	1. Chapter 1

The placard in the display case read, _Lot 19: Automaton clock, 830-835 PD, Whitestone Society of Artists and Artisans._

The label was understated, but the tabletop timepiece was anything but. It resembled a classical building surrounded by miniature figures. A small bird perched on the rooftop, viewing everyone below. Most curiously, at least unless you knew Whitestone’s history, a bear had pride of place before the front door. It was rearing up on its hind legs, standing taller than the townspeople. None of them seemed afraid of him. One even seemed ready to offer something, although she, and everything else, was suspended in motion. The delicate handle on the back of the clock suggested its potential. The stern guard standing nearby also suggested its value.

The woman who’d come to see it did her best to ignore the guard—a tall order, considering he was a very tall half-orc—and bent closer to the case.

Her reflection in the glass was faint, but it still showed the vivid red of her hair and the intent flicker of her eyes. She’d dressed in muted, formal clothes like everyone else, but she moved like they fit uncomfortably. Her short hair was brushed down far enough to cover her pointed ears, but her sun-bronzed complexion and freckled nose still stood out in this town, as far north as it was and as close to winter. She could have disguised those features better, but doing so hadn’t felt right. Even the name she’d registered under — “K. Ashe” — wasn’t exactly a lie. She could only hope that no one would think she was more interesting than the extraordinary artifacts in this room. So far, she’d been proven correct.

After all, the Frederickstein-Graves collection, built up over the years by cousins and companions of Whitestone’s ruling family, ran toward the esoteric. It also kept an eye to local history. Ms. Ashe had surveyed the catalog already, which included an elaborate game set dating back to the re-opening of continental trade routes (lot 9) and an unusual harp by a 10th-century artificer famous for her impossible-to-mimic performances (lot 12). But the prize items claimed connection to Whitestone’s greatest villains and heroes. Ms. Ashe had already overheard an enthusiastic discussion about a set of onyx jewelry that once passed through the hands of Lady Briarwood. It came complete with legends about a curse. From the sounds of it, that was somehow adding to the lot’s appeal. She hadn’t even wanted to ask.

But then there was this clock.

 _Whitestone’s renowned artisans’ society was founded by Percival Frederickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III,_ said the catalog on page 32, where she’d left a slender bookmark. _De Rolo was Whitestone’s original Sophist of Native Ingenuity and member of the legendary group Vox Machina. This automaton clock, styled in the manner of his clock tower installation, dates from the period of his involvement with the guild and was gifted directly to the Frederickstein family. He has been credited in family documents as the maker of this timepiece._

Ms. Ashe, who had some familiarity with de Rolo handiwork, reached back into distant memories for a comparison. It took more effort than she was expecting. Suppressing a wince, she tilted her head to see the clock at a better angle.

“Magnificent craftsmanship, isn’t it?” said someone behind her. When she glanced up at the glass, she saw a young woman in a tailored suit, with her dark hair bound in a tidy braid. Her smile was just as tight, just as precise. “It’s truly something to see it up close.”

“It is,” the redhead agreed. She straightened and turned around. “Jewel of the collection, everyone’s saying.”

“For once, the wisdom of the masses is entirely correct.” The woman’s smile had gone a touch condescending. “I traveled all the way from Rexxentrum to see it. It’s good to know the journey wasn’t wasted.”

“Did you now.”

“Indeed.” She proffered a hand. “Celia Corrigan. And I suppose you’ll be one of my rivals at auction, Miss…?”

“Ashe,” she answered, and then, somewhat haltingly, “Kiki, specifically. To my friends. And the occasional rival.”

“ _Kiki_. Really. Well, that’s charming.” Celia smiled again, mostly to the guard. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to show us the clock in motion?”

“That’s a question for one of the specialists, ma’am.”

“Of course. Could you call one over, please?”

His expression didn’t change, but he touched his earpiece and murmured something Kiki couldn’t hear. She reflexively reached up to her own ear, touching the jewel that still hung there, but as ever, it remained perfectly silent.

Celia, who was speaking again, didn’t seem to notice.

“I was sent to inspect this at the behest of my employers,” she said. “We specialize in far more complex devices, but we still appreciate the classics. Especially when their makers are so interesting. Ah, there we are.”

The auction specialist, a tall human woman with an aquiline nose, nodded a greeting. “I understand you’re interested in the de Rolo clock.”

“Are you saying that’s its official provenance, then?”

“We can’t say it with 100% certainty, but all the hallmarks we’re aware of are there. I can show you one or two of them. Just a moment.”

While the guard hovered, she produced a small key and unlocked one side of the display case. Then she reached in with one gloved hand and pointed.

“That right there, of course, is the famous trained bear that belonged to the reigning de Rolos,” she said. “Trinket, by name. You’ll see him in motifs across Whitestone even today.”

“Trinket. Whatever inspired that name for a bear?”

“We don’t actually know,” the specialist admitted. “Much of Vex’ahlia’s history before becoming Baroness remains vague. But the popular theory is that since her husband was so clever about crafting trinkets, the bear was nicknamed that to prove he was one of her own.”

Ms. Ashe, who knew that that wasn’t the story at all, twisted her lips but kept her mouth shut.

“The building is a stylized representation of a de Rolo property,” the specialist went on, indicating architectural details and commenting over a few. “Back in the 9th century, it was a shop. Part of the economic renaissance of Whitestone after being reclaimed from the Briarwoods.”

“It was a bakery,” Ms. Ashe added, unable to help herself this time. “The Slayer’s Cake. You can see part of the logo on the sign.”

The specialist’s eyes lit up. “Good eyes. Yes, that’s the name we have on record.”

“Again with the strange titles,” Celia said. “Slaying cakes?”

Kiki felt like she had to reply. “It was a tongue-in-cheek reference to another guild. The Slayer’s Take. Still exists, but under a different name and very different regulations. They hunted a few things too close to extinction, so now they claim to be about responsible wildlife management and environmental stewardship.” She quirked an eyebrow. “I understand a druid or two nudged them in that direction.”

Celia sniffed. “The Green Coalition at work again. We’ve had debates with them about our mining operations.”

“I imagine you have,” Kiki said under her breath.

“So what was the connection between the Slayer’s Take and a bakery?” Celia asked.

“The bakery founders used to be members,” said the specialist. “It was something of a retirement venture, after they were done with the adventuring life.”

“Actually, they opened it slightly before they fought…” Kiki began, then shook her head and waved a hand. “But close enough.”

The specialist turned to her. “So you’re also a student of local history.”

“Something like. Just…long experience.” Kiki shrugged one shoulder and changed the topic. “But this clock. Anyone could make a clock themed around the city. Is there a maker’s mark to identify it?”

Celia nodded as if she also wanted to know. The specialist gently tilted the clock back to show the symbol on the base. “The mark is for the artisans’ society. We have a chart of different iterations of this logo. This is the earliest, the one Lord de Rolo personally designed. It didn’t acquire the double border until the 850s.”

“Hmm,” Kiki said, studying the little symbol.

“Also, the way the figures move is very typical of his work. Let me show you.” She set it back down and delicately wound the clock.

Celia bent closer this time. Kiki, her attention caught, didn’t move. She just held her breath and waited as the gears turned and the hands realigned, and the figures began gradually to stir.

“Look here,” said the auction specialist, indicating the townspeople in motion. “The articulation is particularly clever. My favorite is the woman offering a pastry to the bear.”

Kiki whispered something that might have been a name, but no one else heard it. The clockwork bear, though, lifted his head and seemingly looked straight out through the glass at her.

“The scene’s all very prosaic, isn’t it,” Celia said. “You’re right, though; the craftsmanship is terribly clever. There’s familiar techniques here, actually. I’ve seen clockwork like this before. Might lend credence to a few theories.”

The bear took a polite sniff of the pastry. Kiki’s side glance was less friendly. “What sort of theories do you mean?”

“That there really were ideas exchanged between Mr. de Rolo and our company founder. Maybe even outright collaboration.” She paused. “Well. Our honorary founder, I should say. The original inventor of the rifles that we licensed and continued developing. Did I mention I work in weapons manufacturing?”

“You might have left that out,” Kiki said thinly. “Are you speaking of…”

Celia’s tone turned conspiratorial. “Dr. Anna Ripley,” she answered with a smile. “She may still be a controversial figure, but I’ve always found her _fascinating._ And I’ve studied both her works and those of her competitors for a very long time.”

The clock chimed, and the bird on the rooftop opened its beak in a warning caw. Kiki, struck dumb, distantly felt that it might have been laying on the dramatic irony a bit thick.

The specialist, who’d missed that exchange while listening to something over her earpiece, closed and locked the case before nodding to them both. “If you’ll excuse me, it seems I have another auction-goer to speak to. But it’s good to see your interest. If you have other questions, come find me. I’ll be here until the end of the afternoon.”

“Of course,” Celia said, smiling brightly. “Thank you.”

The specialist walked off. Celia, too, readied to go. She faced Kiki again, though, and gave her one more little smile. It was taking on distinct shades of a smirk. “I hope you understand my interest in this item now, at least.”

“I do,” Kiki said, her voice low.

“And if I might ask—because now I’m curious—what brought you here to bid on this?”

She thought about it. “History,” she said at last. “Legacy. And a certain personal interest.”

“Care to share what kind?”

Kiki met her gaze levelly. “No.”

Celia’s eyebrows lifted. Then she started to laugh. “Well. You’ll make for an interesting competitor. But I’ll warn you, the Whitburn Company coffers run deep.” She winked. “I’ll see you at the auction, Miss Ashe.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Kiki said, and watched Celia go. The woman’s heels clicked rhythmically on the stone floor, almost mechanical in their precision, and only slowly grew quieter until they were lost in the sound of the crowd.

Kiki let out a long, long breath when she was gone. She looked briefly at the guard, who didn’t react, then slowly returned to the case. He didn’t seem bothered when she pressed one hand to the glass for support, at least. And if he was listening when she murmured one last thing aloud, she found she didn’t care.

“Oh, buddy,” Keyleth said to the little clockwork bear. “This just got a lot more complicated.”

Trinket roared his agreement before winding down, going silent and still once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Modern-day Whitestone was a whole other world from the city Keyleth had first visited. Then, it had been damaged and demoralized, suffering under rulers who meant only to exploit it. The intervening years had been much kinder. Today it was prosperous and populous, and it had become a haven for innovators in multiple fields. What most people knew about was its technology. Those of a particular need knew it for its medicine. Just over a hundred years ago, a team of scientists, inventors, and clerics had banded together to found a hospital and medical research center that today was the pride of Tal’dorei.

That hospital had also once saved the life of a young Lavinia Graves. Her family had been hosting fundraisers for it ever since.

Keyleth, sitting quietly near the back of the Sauvell auction hall, opened her catalog again to the front pages. Beside a family portrait featuring a thriving, teenaged Lavinia was a full-page profile of the Dawnlight Medical Center, named in honor of both gods that the original clerics served. _Good thing Pelor and Sarenrae weren’t feeling competitive,_ Keyleth thought, smiling crookedly. It faded only slightly when she saw the familiar crest beside the hospital’s name. One of the founders on the research side, after all, had been a de Rolo.

 _But was it Archibald,_ Keyleth thought, trying to track her way back through multiple generations, _or Annika, or…?_

She touched the little crest and sighed.

_Maybe I really have been away too long._

She put the catalog back in her travel bag and took a better look at the crowd.

Unsurprisingly, since this event had been publicized across the country, there was a wide variety of attendees. She spotted scholars, curiosity seekers, and wealthy collectors alike. Most were human, although not all of them were. A man and woman in the next aisle wore badges from two different universities, while a tabaxi stood near them, gripping a catalog bristling with bookmarks. Another woman who’d just taken a seat across the aisle was dressed in Iounian robes. She’d folded her catalog open to a page about historical journals. Keyleth hummed softly, scanning for any familiar faces. She hadn’t seen Celia yet, but she had no doubt the woman would arrive soon.

The thought unsettled her again. She sat back, sighed, then did as she often did these days when she wanted something to do with her hands. Tuning out the rest of the room, she pulled up a tiny bit of magic to craft slender vines of various shades, and started braiding them in a complex pattern she’d learned from a traditional Othanzian weaver several decades ago. It still took just enough concentration that it kept some of the growing tumult in the hall at bay. She didn’t even notice when someone approached to sit beside her. What got her attention was his words: “I haven’t seen druidcraft like that in _years._ ”

Keyleth raised her head. The man sitting there—dark-skinned, gray-haired, professionally but not expensively dressed, and sporting a faint but lingering Marquesian accent—was watching her work. She laughed softly and rubbed a thumb over the intricate band she’d crafted. “It’s not much,” she said. “But it passes the time.”

“It’s beautiful work. Glad someone still has a knack for it.”

She tilted her head and smiled, if strangely. “Are we really so rare as all that?”

“In a city like this one, at least. I’ve been to places where druids are more prominent. But back home there was less in the sense of general greenery. I doubt it would be so restful to druidcraft a cactus.”

Keyleth laughed despite herself. “You’d be surprised at what desert druids can get up to.”

“Oh, I was told a few tales as a child. I suspect they grew in the telling, though.”

Her voice went wry. “You were listening to the bards, then?”

“I listen to everyone.” He lifted a slim notebook. “I’m a journalist. I came to report on the auction.”

“Ah,” she said, cautious again. “Did I just walk into an interview?”

“If there’s anything you’d care to share, certainly. The Tal’dorei Traveler would appreciate your insight.”

She looked him over, noting how expectantly he was waiting. Then she studied the crowd again, and answered thoughtfully. “I appreciate the thought behind this auction. Of course it’s for a worthy cause, and the family’s being so generous about their donations. I just…I do worry about splitting up a collection this unique and selling it off to all corners of the world.” She heard a rhythmic clicking sound, and winced. “Especially if it’s to people who might not…understand.”

Celia Corrigan came striding up the center aisle of the auction hall. She didn’t look Keyleth’s way or acknowledge her at all until she’d found a seat much closer to the front, where she turned to set down her handbag. Then she met Keyleth’s gaze across the floor and winked.

“Are you saying,” the journalist said, watching all of this go on, “that you have doubts about the motivations of some of the bidders?”

Keyleth watched Celia take her seat. “I’d be willing to let you quote me on that, yes.”

“And would you be willing to share your name?”

She considered him carefully before she handed him the woven band. “How about you study this and see if you can puzzle it out?”

He took it, brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to ask something more. A sound from the front of the hall, though, interrupted them both.

All attention focused on the podium.

“Good afternoon, guests, and welcome,” said the auctioneer, a tall, slender figure whose features suggested a hint of unusual ancestry, maybe even draconic. Her voice was amplified by a small microphone, half mechanical, half enchanted. “I’m Sima Astar of Sauvell Auctions, and I’ll be hosting today’s event. Thank you all for joining us…”

Sima's poise was so effortless that Keyleth spared a brief moment for both appreciation and envy. She shook that feeling off, however, and took the opportunity to make certain she was ready. The numbered paddle she’d been given was in her bag, and so she fished that out, ignoring the gaze of her curious journalist friend as she dug through more items than should have fit into that space. Once she retrieved it, she sat back up, and—in the effort to look anywhere but at the man or his notebook—took stock of the rest of the room. At the back, the guards were quietly closing the doors. One of them, the tall half-orc fellow she’d seen earlier, caught her eye and nodded politely.

She did the same, wishing now that she’d asked his name. Then she swiveled back around. Onstage, a Dawnlight representative was thanking the members of the Frederickstein-Graves family. When they said they knew meaningful the artifacts were, the journalist eyed Keyleth again, who set her jaw and started contemplating distraction tactics.

Luckily, before she had to employ any of them, the auctioneer stepped back up to the podium. “Without further ado, I’d like to begin by drawing your attention to lot number one.”

Keyleth sat straighter. So did everyone else. Sima, in her element now, began describing the collection of miniature landscapes. The tabaxi bid almost immediately, and the auction was on.

Keyleth had never been to an event like this, and she was grateful she had a few minutes to watch everyone else and figure out the rhythm. One the bidding began, it went _fast._ She watched the flashes of raised and lowered numbers, the call and response of prices, excited and disappointed reactions around the room as winning bids were reached. Most of the bidders had particular, focused interests, but a few gave almost any of the items a shot. Keyleth found herself watching the tabaxi, who seemed enthusiastic but not overly wealthy, for he had to back away at the last from several items. He discarded his bookmarks one by one as he did, casting them all haphazardly to the floor. When one slid over to Keyleth’s feet, she picked it up, seeing the note he’d written: _Gorgeous. Maybe? Maybe not. (Too many choices!)_

Keyleth cracked a smile, set it aside, and waited.

The game set, in the end, was won by a private collector; the harp went to a music school in Emon. The Iounian priestess and the local historians got into a tense bidding war more than once over the documents. The tabaxi bidder finally went for it on the onyx jewelry, and exclaimed with glee when the gavel dropped. _I’ll have to ask him later if he’s enjoying his curse,_ Keyleth thought wryly.

Then the stage was cleared again, and the assistants hefted in another, covered case. A faint murmur rose.

“Finally, we have lot 19,” said Sima, gesturing. The half-orc guard pulled back the ivory cloth that covered it. “This is for the WSAA automaton clock, credited to the legendary Percival de Rolo III. This is a superb example of clockwork technique and artistry, and a rare piece of Whitestone’s history. We’ll begin the bidding at 250,000 gold. Thank you, that’s 250. We’re to 275.”

Keyleth, startled into action, raised her paddle. Somehow, she hadn’t expected it to start _immediately._ The auctioneer acknowledged her, then continued. Bids were called from all around the room. A few people made hopeful, early attempts before the price rose too high. The most determined parties were quickly identifiable: one of the local university’s historians, a couple of smartly dressed but disconcertingly anonymous collectors, and, of course, Celia, who had just bid 325.

Keyleth raised her paddle. “350,” she called.

“That’s 350 from bidder number 20,” Sima said smoothly. “Do I hear 375?”

One of the collectors made a reflexive twitch, but grimaced and lowered his paddle. The historians, after a nervous exchange, stepped in. _If they win,_ Keyleth thought, _I wouldn’t even object. They’ve got a lovely little museum, if I remember right—_

“425,” countered Celia, her voice strong and clear. She glanced back over her shoulder, making quick note of the historians, who’d sighed and deflated. They’d obviously hit their limit.

Then Celia focused, inevitably, on Keyleth.

Keyleth’s eyes narrowed.

She had never been a profligate spender, really. Maybe she’d indulged in fancy dresses now and then, or in a few—all right, more than a few—bottles of fine wine. But so much of that had been so long ago. After long enough, possessions only felt like a burden: so much clutter across so many years, so much weight. She gave away far, far more than she’d ever kept. Still, she’d made her gold in her day. And money left in the right places had a way of multiplying.

Hers had been multiplying for _centuries._

“500,” she said, and a rippling reaction went through the crowd. The auctioneer raised her eyebrows, then smiled.

Celia didn’t. She called out and raised her paddle again.

“That’s 550 from bidder 12,” Sima announced. “550 for the Artisans’ Society automaton clock. Do we have 575?”

Keyleth raised her paddle, feeling oddly like a student with the only correct answer, trying to get the teacher’s attention. Sima pointed her way. “575. Our next bid amount is 600,000 gold. Do I...”

“650,” Celia interrupted, not even bothering to identify herself. The crowd murmured. Even over the sound, though, Keyleth heard the slightest tension in her voice. Perhaps she, too, was growing impatient. Or maybe nearing her top price.

Sima seemed to sense it too, because for the first time, her fingers rested on her gavel.

“The current bid is 650,000,” she said. “650, going to the Dawnlight Foundation. Taking any final offers.”

Keyleth met Sima’s gaze and thought about her options. She could concede and let one more piece of history escape her, or she could keep playing this game, keep going up in increments, hope she could wear Celia down. They were close to the clock’s top estimated value, after all. There had to be a breaking point somewhere.

“Going once,” said Sima.

 _You know there’s another option,_ she thought. _And it’s not just blowing the room apart, grabbing it, and running for it. That would ruin that nice guard’s day. Even if it would be tempting just to see the looks on everyone else’s faces._

“Going twice.”

The journalist looked her way again. She could tell from the look on his face that he had a theory about her, and was waiting to be proven right or wrong. Celia, meanwhile, had her shoulders straight and was looking dead ahead, chin raised like she’d already won.

 _Time for the grand, ridiculous gesture,_ Keyleth thought, and her hand shot up.

“One million gold,” she pronounced.

This time it was chaos.

Everyone exclaimed in shock. Most of the bidders wrenched around in their chairs to see her. Celia was one of those, and she stared in open disbelief. Even Sima seemed taken aback. As if wanting proof of the validity of the bid, she repeated the number like a prompt. “That’s a bid of one million,” she said carefully. “One million gold, from bidder number…?”

Keyleth stood up, tossed her number aside, and stepped into the center aisle. Her magic rose around her when she did.

 _Enough of this,_ she thought, and went for broke.

“I am Keyleth of the Air Ashari, member of Vox Machina, one of the saviors of Whitestone.” The air swirled around her as she spoke, and the tabaxi’s discarded bookmarks, caught up in the eddies, began transforming into leaves without her even trying. “Some also call me the Godless Priestess, the Ageless Protector, the Speaker for the Lost, the Healer of the Lucidian, and the Voice of the Tempest. I can prove my identity by magic or blood, and the trees of this town still know my name. I am placing a bid for one million gold in the memory of my dearest, oldest friend.” She paused for deliberate effect. “And if you have any doubts about how much I can pay, I guarantee everything you need is still being held for me in Whitestone’s own royal treasury.”

The auctioneer’s gavel dropped, not in a deliberate rap but by falling from slack fingers to the floor. Everyone else stared at Keyleth right along with her. The historians. The Iounian priestess. The journalist. Celia, perhaps most nakedly of all. Her expression was impossible to read. Keyleth had to admit she sympathized. She had no idea how to feel, either.

There was only one person who reacted differently.

The half-orc guard, possessed of much more composure than anyone else, pressed one fist to his heart and bowed. When he did, Keyleth could see the crown of his bald head for the first time. Tattooed in a neat line down the center was an intricate Ashari tattoo. Surprised and touched, she bowed in return. And Sima, swiveling between the both of them, began recognizing the truth of it all.

After that, there was really only one thing left for the auctioneer to do.

“Sold,” Sima said in a cracking voice. “To Keyleth of the Air Ashari, protector of Whitestone. And that’s…that’s all for today.”

She stepped back from the podium. The guard strode forward to offer Keyleth his arm, and before the crowd could trouble her further, he fetched her bag and calmly walked her from the room. The doors shut definitively behind them.

Just like that, the auction came to a close.


	3. Chapter 3

“I suppose,” Keyleth said some time later, “I made a bit of a show of everything back there.”

The guard, whose name was Otaro, cracked the first smile she’d seen him make. He was standing as her personal bodyguard now, having escorted her to a waiting room beside the auction staff’s office. Most of them were still running for higher-paid help to sort her out. One had already fetched a representative from the Treasury, who’d taken one look at Keyleth through an identity verification spell before helplessly stammering and nearly falling over in his haste to genuflect. He was over in the office now, gulping down something to settle his nerves. She had to assume her payment would get resolved eventually.

In the meantime, Otaro—whose mother’s family practiced Earth Ashari traditions, he’d said, albeit far from the traditional home of the clan; they were much more spread out these days—was doing his part to watch over Keyleth while the clock was being packaged and prepared. She’d asked for privacy while that was going on, and he’d made sure it was granted. He’d certainly taken all of his lessons about guardianship and stewardship to heart, even if in a different way than she might have expected. Meanwhile, she was starting to fidget impatiently, but that wasn’t his fault.

“Auctions are always a show,” he said. “That’s usually the point.”

“And I’m sure our journalist friend will be writing quite the story about it. Complete with pull-out quotes from Keyleth of All the Titles I Can’t Believe I Said Aloud.”

“You earned them all, my lady.”

“More or less,” she said uncomfortably. “And it’s just Keyleth, please.”

He bowed again, but fortunately for her nerves, only slightly. Keyleth took the opportunity to get up and look around. There were portraits here of the Sauvell House founders, but more importantly, there was also a large picture window overlooking a courtyard. She went to it, staring out at the trees and the mottled gray of Whitestone’s early-winter sky.

She may not have been here for years, but at least that sky hadn’t changed.

“You know,” she said distantly, “back when I earned all those titles, people still treated me like a person. One who did extraordinary things, but still, a person. Now I so much as say my name and everyone acts like I’m some outlandish myth brought to life, and they don’t know what to do.” She shivered. “I’m afraid I took advantage this time.”

Otaro was quiet. She watched a black-winged bird fly free from a nearby branch, and for a moment—brief this time, although it wasn’t always—she felt a strange sense of deja vu, almost dislocation, like she’d just slid slightly out of time.

She turned from the view before she could get lost in it, and cocked a look at Otaro over one shoulder. “How soon did you realize it was me?”

“As soon as you walked in, ma’am.”

 _Ma’am._ Well, it was a few notches down from “my lady.” Honestly, at that scale, the politeness was oddly charming. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For letting me be a person for a while.”

He nodded before stepping away to gather something from the office. Keyleth sat back against the windowsill, sighed, and shut her eyes. She didn’t open them again until Otaro returned with a pair of Sauvell representatives who presented her with the clock for verification before they sealed up the crate. After that, there was a sheaf of papers to sign, both for the auction house and the Treasury employee who was approving, however breathlessly, the money transfer. She half expected him to slide in another page at the end of the stack, just to get her autograph.

When she was almost done, and the forms were getting stamped and magically sealed, she heard a precise knock at the door.

“Excuse me,” said a familiar voice on the other side. “If I could trouble you for a moment, I’d like to speak to Miss…Ashe, please.”

Keyleth didn’t turn around. Otaro made a displeased sound, and from the tone of it, she suspected he was about to send their guest away. Keyleth shook her head. “It’s all right. Show Ms. Corrigan in, please. I can spare a moment.” She gave Otaro a smile. “I have a lot of moments, after all.”

Otaro’s frown remained, but he drew the door open. Celia stepped inside. Her stance had changed somewhat: still poised, but cautious now, seemingly braced for something. Keyleth was too, so she supposed that was fair. “Can I help you?” Keyleth said.

Celia came at it slowly. “I…Keyleth. May I call you Keyleth?”

“Yes. Also, what I said earlier was true. I mean, part of it was. Kiki is fine. Even if I haven’t used it for a long time.”

“I think…I’ll stick with Keyleth for now.”

“All right.” There was silence for a moment. “Did you have a question?”

Celia raised her head. “Why didn’t you just tell them?”

That wasn’t the first question Keyleth had expected. She had to grasp first for specifics. “Tell them what?”

“Who you really were.” Celia gestured at the crate. “If they’d known, they probably would have just _given_ it to you.”

 _An interesting assumption,_ Keyleth thought, but she didn’t say it out loud. “The auction _was_ for charity,” she said mildly. “You’d rather I deprive them of the donation?”

Celia had the decency to look somewhat abashed. “Still, it seems like you’d have some right to it.”

“The people who _had_ a right to it put it up for sale.” Keyleth shrugged. “So I went along with the game.”

“In that case,” Celia said, more dryly this time, “well played.”

Keyleth gave her a wry little look in return, but didn’t respond. Otaro, who’d been listening to something on his earpiece, seemed to view that as an acceptable moment to step in. He gently touched her shoulder. “Ma’am, the Frederickstein-Graveses have sent a car for you.”

Surprised, she raised an eyebrow. “They have?”

“After they learned you were here, they arranged for accommodations. They and the de Rolos would like to meet with you tomorrow.”

Keyleth sighed, knowing where this was going. “I’m sure they would. Tell the driver I’ll be along in a minute.”

“Of course. Should they fetch anything from your previous lodgings?”

“No. I wasn’t staying anywhere in particular. But thank you.” At his confusion, she smiled. “Beastshaping _does_ mean you can take up residence in any good wild patch you find.”

It took a second, but he smiled back, seeming to understand. Celia looked much less certain. Keyleth supposed it did sound outlandish. One of the greatest living heroes in all Exandria, if the history books were to believed, and she was…sleeping in trees?

She wasn’t sure how to explain that wild animals frequently made for the best company these days. She decided not to try. Instead, Keyleth checked to see that all her paperwork was settled, then hooked her bag back over her shoulder. She was about to follow Otaro outside when Celia cleared her throat.

“There’s something else I meant to say,” Celia said. “About what I said earlier.”

 _Well,_ Keyleth thought, _here it is._ She gave Otaro a gentle just-a-minute gesture, took a deep breath, and told Celia, “I think I know what this is about.”

“Maybe so.” Celia’s expression clouded. “I wasn’t aware when we first spoke that you had…history…with Dr. Ripley. You encountered her personally, didn’t you?”

“You could say that.”

“The stories say you killed her.”

Keyleth didn’t turn to see Otaro’s reaction. She wondered what her own expression looked like, when it came right down to it. “Not…alone.” Keyleth’s fingers twitched, and she thought inevitably of vines. “But I had some hand in it.”

“I can only imagine what you think of me, then,” Celia said, her voice low. “Still, I meant it when I said she fascinated me. She was from Rexxentrum, too, you know. I learned about her when I was young. It wasn’t so common then for women there to rise to such ambition. She was intelligent, and innovative, and…”

“You did notice she was the villain in those stories, I hope.”

“Yes. But…intelligent women are so often belittled. Even demonized. And I hoped there was something more to it. Something worth keeping.”

At that, Keyleth suddenly felt uncertain what to say.

In one sense, she could almost understand. From Celia’s viewpoint, Ripley probably _was_ fascinating. There probably hadn’t been a plethora of other women in the field. And she knew what it was like, wanting your heroes and role models to be the people you hoped they were. More to the point, she knew what it was like to _be_ that role model, and to try living up to the ideals of so many. But taking a person like _Ripley_ and projecting such things onto her…

Keyleth shuddered, and started her answer on a slant, partially in truth and partially to buy herself time.

“First of all, you might want to think about getting out of Rexxentrum. Not everyone treats women so poorly.” _Although some do,_ she thought, remembering a few painful encounters over the years. Her lips twisted. “Just how high up in your company are you, exactly?”

Celia didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

_And as for the rest…_

Keyleth shut her eyes. In the darkness was a whole world of memories she hadn’t touched in years. She turned one or two of them over, picked over the pieces, then sighed. She felt like she had to give Celia something.

But there was only so much she could bear to give.

“You were right about her being intelligent,” Keyleth said carefully. “And ambitious. And determined. She had a way of fixing onto her goals and doing anything to achieve them.”

Something sparked in Celia’s eyes. Keyleth, knowing she was on the verge of dousing it, flinched. She went ahead anyway.

“But I want to be absolutely clear. She acted out of selfishness. She took advantage of people. Used them. Tortured them for anything she could get out of them. And she had no qualms about killing people who got in her way.”

“So I’d been told,” Celia said reluctantly. “I may have hoped it was distorted, or exaggerated…”

“No,” Keyleth said harshly, cutting her off. She wondered if the sudden rattle of objects on the table was her own fault. “I held my best friend in my arms after she shot him dead. I can still feel the way his blood stained my hands while I tried to heal wounds too awful to mend. And for any chance of saving him, I had to watch my friends plead to gods I had no faith in and reach into unimaginable darkness myself to pull his soul back to shore. I think that qualifies me more than any person alive to say that she is _no one_ you should be emulating.”

Celia paled. Keyleth was at once fiercely grateful for that and unable to look at her. She turned away, and with shaking hands she retrieved her fallen auction paperwork from the floor. It took some time to sort that out, and a few more seconds to catch her breath. Once she did, guilt started settling in. Again.

“Then again,” she said, voice low, “after some of what I’ve done, I’m probably not one to talk.”

Otaro, who’d come around the opposite side of the table to help her, frowned deeply and shook his head. Even Celia made a small sound of protest. _Once a hero,_ Keyleth thought grimly, and sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, head bowed. “After this long, I’m still bad at letting go of regrets.”

“That’s…that’s hard for everyone,” Celia said haltingly. Keyleth let out a pained laugh. She couldn’t deny it, but…

“I’ve got a few more years of those than you, Celia,” she said. “So I can say from experience: don’t start chasing grief when you don’t have to.” She looked up. “Otaro, I think it’s time to go.”

Without question, he hefted up the crate and made his way back toward the door. Keyleth followed him. Celia silently watched them go, her expression complex, and only spoke again when Keyleth reached the threshold. Her voice was muted, and her tone unsure.

“Just…one thing,” she said. Keyleth turned. “What _did_ happen to Anna Ripley at the end? That’s one thing no one seems to know. Except, I guess, for you.”

Keyleth stared at her for a long while. Memories rose again, giving her a grim tableau from centuries ago. It took effort to banish that screaming face from her mind and give Celia an answer. She did so honestly in the end, but the words tasted bitter as she spoke.

“A tree grew from her corpse on Glintshore,” Keyleth said. “If you really want to know, go find it and ask your questions of her bones.”

She didn’t look back. She just closed the door behind her and walked away.


	4. Chapter 4

It was raining by the time Keyleth stepped outside, in a familiar, dreary drizzle.

As promised, the car was waiting in the auction house’s wide, sweeping driveway. It was a sleek, silver thing, built for both luxury and speed, and raindrops were beading all across it like glimmering jewels. The crest that served as its logo identified it as a de Rolo Stormer. The model was nicknamed, she was told, the Silver Bullet.

She suspected Percy would have approved of absolutely everything except that name.

Otaro secured the crate in the trunk, and she wished him a fond goodbye before she got herself settled, somewhat reluctantly, into the back seat. No matter how common motorized vehicles were becoming these days, she always struggled to relax in them. Sighing, she rolled down one of the tinted windows, uncaring of the raindrops that spattered inside across the leather. If she was committed to going along with this, she wanted to watch the scenery as they drove.

Whitestone was a much larger city than it used to be, and so much of the drive was unfamiliar, taking her on a long route through the business district on its way to the old center of town. Keyleth kept craning her neck to see around buildings, hoping for something familiar, a flash of green or autumn gold. Dawnfather Square, however, was not on the route. What she recognized first was something higher up the hill: the silhouette of Whitestone Castle, stark against the dimming sky. Keyleth tilted her head, remembering. She’d _lived_ there once, technically speaking. And a few years ago she’d sneaked into a tour group there. The contrast had been exquisitely odd.

Seeing her eventual destination felt even stranger.

The rustic inns of her past still existed here and there, but for those who craved their luxuries, there were places like this: the Hotel Ilesse, named after someone whose period of importance Keyleth had apparently missed. The building was a good six stories tall, and the doormen bracketing the filigreed entry already spoke volumes about the ostentatiousness waiting inside. Keyleth managed not to say “Really?” out loud, but it was a near thing.

She almost said something even more impolite once she saw her room. The bed by itself looked like it was half the size of the entire Timberlands. She wasn’t sure in the least what to do with herself, although apparently someone was already planning her social calendar to make up for that, considering the royally stamped greeting letter on the desk and a diplomatic appointment list already drawn up on her behalf. Keyleth read it over and sighed.

“I hate state visits,” she muttered.

“Excuse me, my lady,” someone said. She turned to see one of the hotel employees carrying her crate inside. “Where would you like me to put this?”

There were half a dozen surfaces to choose from. Keyleth pointed mostly at random. “That table by the bed should be fine.”

He did as she’d asked. “If there’s anything you need, please just message us downstairs.”

“I honestly can’t imagine what might be missing from this room,” she said, having almost just bumped over a fruit bowl. “But thank you.”

He nodded and retreated. Keyleth was left alone to think, and eventually to consider the crate. She sighed heavily. She knew she had something left to do.

But first, she _had_ to get out of this suit.

The shoes went first, kicked into a corner she never intended to investigate again. Then the layers of clothing went, piece by piece. She piled them more or less together near the bed, in case she did guilt herself into salvaging the mess later. For now, she turned from it all and plunged into a bath. Druids with her skills were never really lacking for hot water, but she had to admit she understood the appeal of effortless faucets.

She also wanted to scrub the aura of the day away as much as possible. Or at least just submerge herself in the water until the warped and wavering world above didn’t matter so much anymore.

That only ever worked for a little while, but at least she could breathe under there for as long as she liked.

 _All right, Keyleth,_ she thought at last, once the dancing light patterns had started to lose their charm. _Enough. You need to see about that clock. You know what you_ actually _need to look for._

She sighed unhappily, letting out a long cascade of bubbles. Then she dredged herself out of the bath. Drying herself was a quick exercise in summoning a breeze; clothing herself was just as simple, after she found a thin slip of a dress in her bag. It was a sleeveless shift that left her tattoos—and brands, and scars—on full display.

In the mirrors, she looked like an entirely different creature than the one who’d walked inside. She also looked enough like herself again that she felt the confidence to return to the crate, pry open the lid, and pull out the precious clock.

Once dislodged from its nest of coiled wood shavings, it gleamed in the light of the room.

“You _are_ a beauty, aren’t you?” she murmured, because no matter what else might be true about that clock, its quality was obvious. Its weight was also surprising, in more ways than one. When she realized her hands were trembling, she called up vines to help her, making them support the clock and hold it at eye level while she sat at the foot of the bed.

She didn’t _need_ to watch it in motion again, but she wanted to. Carefully she gripped the handle and gave it two turns, then sat back, watching the display.

In the little scene before her, shoppers circled the bakery, peered into the windows, and greeted each other. The figure resembling Vex—it _had_ to be Vex—lifted another treat for Trinket, who snuffled at it in approval. And atop the roof, the little raven spread its wings. With her heart caught in her throat, Keyleth reached out to touch its beak. Before she quite got there, though, she withdrew, afraid to break something, waiting it out.

The raven cawed once, and it shouldn’t have echoed the resonant way it did, but maybe that was just her own mind playing tricks on her.

When the mechanisms came to a stop, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she looked again, much closer this time. After a minute she found the latch she knew had to be there and opened up the clock.

She remembered, just barely, how this worked. She’d sat in on Percy’s tinkering sessions more than once, after all, even if that had been a long, long time ago. All the little gears and dials, the tiny springs, the bits and pieces she had no real names for…they still looked familiar enough that her heart suddenly ached. And she knew where Percy really left his signatures on things. The maker’s mark on the bottom was one matter. The hidden personal touch…that was something else.

She’d almost wanted to let that detail go and simply believe the story. But now she needed the truth.

Keyleth carefully tilted the clock to the light, getting a good look at the reverse of the clock face. At the very bottom, almost too small to see, was a tiny, delicate etching, exactly where she’d hoped it would be. Keyleth looked at it. Read it. Read it again.

“Ah,” she said softly, and then, “Of course.”

She sat very still for a minute. Then she gestured. The clock closed, and the figures settled back into their fully dormant positions. Trinket sat back down; the raven settled his wings. And Keyleth’s vines carried the clock back to the table and set it into place before they withered and vanished, leaving only a faint smell of something green. The clock remained, still beautiful.

Keyleth brushed her hands off against her dress and went to the window. As she’d hoped, her room was facing west. Keyleth found the latch to the window and opened it wide, letting in the cool air and the last few drops of evening rain. She stood there, eyes closed, until she’d calmed, then sat on the windowsill to look out across the skyline.

Outside was the unmistakable silhouette of Whitestone’s grand clocktower.

“Hey, Percy,” she said to his masterwork. “It’s me again.”

The clock, of course, had no answer. Then again, if she waited long enough, it would voice all sorts of things. The clocktower was an automaton clock, too, with its own moving figures that performed at set intervals. Even Keyleth was represented in there somewhere. She’d always blushed so much to see it that she tended not to watch her own appearance in the sequence, arriving alongside her companions and lifting her staff to the sky. If she remembered correctly, though, Percy’s figure was standing right by her side.

She could have used that right about now.

“It’s been a hell of a day,” she said distantly, thinking of him. “I just got back from an auction. You’d be amazed at what people will pay for your shit these days.”

Somehow, the silence managed to communicate a sardonic reply: _People with too much money will_ always _fling it at ridiculous things._ It sounded a little like Percy. It also echoed Keyleth’s own, lingering shock at how much money she’d just spent.

 _They’ll probably name an entire hospital wing after you for that,_ she realized. _Whether you want them to or not._

She made a face, but eventually let it go. It wouldn’t be the first thing named after her, after all. She’d met a number of babies with her name over the years. Several pets. Stuffed animals, every time children saw her shapeshift and were inspired to play out the story with their toys. She was almost used to it by now.

And there were far worse things she could be remembered for.

Thoughtfully, she looked up at the clock again, and in an old, nervous gesture she hadn’t made in years, she bit her lip before she spoke.

“Sometimes I wish I could still ask you about this,” she said. “I miss our talks. And I’ve been thinking about legacy again. Yours, mine, how to measure what any of it is.” She let her head rest against the window’s frame. “Mine does feel less…concrete than yours.”

That thought was another rabbit hole. Her mind was still full of all those artifacts at auction. She’d cast off so much over the years, and it had felt right at the time, but in comparison…how much of her past was even left?

Then again, who’d _want_ to be pulled apart into so many pieces? And didn’t it matter that there were people like Otaro who still remembered what she stood for, and who carried on some small part of what she’d done?

“I guess coming back here again is just getting to me,” she murmured. “And listening to revisionist history about Anna bloody Ripley.”

She could imagine the look on Percy’s face about that. She cocked a humorless smile and said, “If I managed to spook Celia into a career change, that alone might make the day a success.”

 _Besides, you supported people in need._ And _you reminded everyone that you’re still here, still looking out for what’s right, still protecting our own._

That thought sounded like so many people she’d known that she had to concede the point. “All right, all right,” she said to the lot of them. “I’ll take the hint.”

 _Good. Besides, the world still_ being here _is concrete proof of your legacy, so I’d suggest you accept at least that much of the obvious._

And _that_ sounded so much like Percy that she laughed aloud. She looked up again at his clock.

“You left an astonishing legacy yourself,” she told him. “Both in your own work and what you taught to others. It all carries on, one way or another. And it all matters, doesn’t it?”

It was still silent out there, but she knew the answer. And when she closed her eyes, she could picture her friends: so many of them across so many years, but a few special people in particular, one of them reaching out to curl his arm around her shoulders for a hug.

She sighed, leaning into it, and let that memory enfold her again for a little while. Then she got up and turned away from the view.

She had some messages to write.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, there were four envelopes left behind on Keyleth’s hotel desk.

One was addressed to the Frederickstein-Graves family, and one to the de Rolos. Both contained letters thanking them for their gracious hospitality. They also contained apologies for her absence at the intended meeting, because she had unavoidable commitments and couldn’t stay for long. She promised to come again soon. She might even have meant it. And she added a footnote to the Frederickstein-Graveses not to be willing to give up their own heritage so easily, even if it was for a good cause. She _definitely_ meant that.

The next letter was to the dean of Sierra University, Whitestone campus, explaining the very expensive gift she was leaving to its historical museum and all the relevant facts she knew about the clock and its maker. She hoped they could make use of it, and appreciate it for what it actually was.

The fourth letter was to Celia Corrigan.

 _In case it helps, there’s something I feel like I should tell you,_ she wrote. _I verified last night who made the clock. The signature inside wasn’t Percy’s. It belonged to an apprentice of his, Merra by name—short for Temerity, she told me when we met. She was a young woman when she came to Whitestone, an unwanted tiefling cast off from her family, trying to make something better of herself than had been expected of someone of her heritage. She’d discovered that she had a knack for making things, so she studied with Percy and the Artisans’ Society for a while. She lived in an apartment above the bakery, and filled it with fanciful creations. And eventually she headed off to see what the rest of the world had to offer. She told me she was heading to Marquet. Maybe even to quiz a certain brass dragon about everything their kind knew about metallurgy._

_She was a marvel, and she made marvels, and she deserves to be remembered. If you’re looking for stories to inspire you, you could do worse than to study hers._

_\- Keyleth_

_P.S. You could also do a lot worse than to get away and visit Marquet for a while yourself. Their beaches are lovely this time of year. Trust me on that one._

Other than the letters, there was almost no sign Keyleth had ever been there. There were only her discarded shoes still lying in the corner, the faint marks of raindrops on the sill, and the still-open window, as if she’d caught the vespertine breeze that night and simply flown away.

—

Across town in Dawnfather Square, an incongruous bird slept in the eaves of one of the buildings facing the Sun Tree.

Whitestone had become famous for its ravens over the years. The native birds tended to be subtly colored, too, the better to blend into the region’s sprawling forests. This bird was something else again. If you could pick it out from the sheltering shadows, you’d see that Its feathers were bright and vibrant, and it had to puff up a little against the chill, aided by a subtle spell cast the night before.

It didn’t wake until the sun did, and then it peeked out, watching the morning light slant through the clouds. The Sun Tree, still clad in the last of its autumn colors, seemed to take on the faintest of glows.

The little conure hopped out along the nearest ledge. Then it flew down to the center of the square, right toward the tree.

Years ago, people could walk straight up to the Sun Tree, too. The older the tree grew and the busier the square, though, the more careful the groundskeepers became. Now there was a delicate-looking but sturdy fence that ringed the tree, hung with no-nonsense “keep off the grass” signs. Another, much larger sign proclaimed the square a heritage site and told the entire legend of the tree. To the city’s credit, they’d gotten the story mostly right.

The little bird landed right above the sign, straightened its feathers, and looked up at the tree. Something, likely an errant breeze, rustled its leaves. The bird tilted its head to listen. Then it glided down over the fence to land.

Halfway down, there was a swirl of color and light, and what touched down were the bare feet of a tall half-elven woman, wearing a sleeveless red-and-gold dress and carrying a worn travel bag. She took a few light steps forward before she sped up and outright ran toward the tree.

“Sun Tree,” she breathed, and straightaway came the reply: _Hey, Kiki. Been a long time._

Keyleth answered by hugging the tree, uncaring if anyone saw or made a fuss. It was early enough yet that most of the town was still abed, anyway. And for the first time since she’d come to town—which she’d done the long way, over land, and in fact mostly by air—she felt at home.

 _You could have slept in my branches, you know,_ said the Sun Tree, gentle and slow. _I wouldn’t mind._

“Sorry, old friend. I didn’t want to presume. And I guess I was feeling shy.” She stepped back, but not too far. “It was a funny day.”

_You’re always welcome here. You know that._

“Yeah,” Keyleth said softly. “How are you doing? Are you good?”

 _I hear that tone,_ the Sun Tree said, sounding subtly amused. _You thinkin’ I’m getting old?_

She smiled crookedly and spread her hands. “Aren’t we all?”

 _Maybe so. Time keeps stretchin’ on. But so long as Pelor’s sun still shines on me, I’ll be okay._ She had the feeling that if he could have put a hand on her shoulder, he would have. _How about you?_

She almost gave a quick shrug of an answer, but it didn’t feel right. She stopped to think about it.

All around her in the square, she could sense signs of life. Everything was slow and sleepy at this time of year, but it was always there, the way the world lived and breathed. Keyleth took it all in, drawing what strength she could from it, and told the tree, “I don’t really have anyone looking out for me. Definitely not the gods. I think it’s up to me to do the watching. It’s just…kind of how it works.”

_Sounds lonely._

“It is,” she admitted. “But there’s a whole world out there to watch over. So I have to protect what I can. Learn what I can. Pass it on.”

 _That’s my Kiki,_ said the Tree, his voice fond. _You’ll be okay, too._

“I sure hope so.”

_I know so. Meantime…you off to somewhere?_

Keyleth, who’d been calling up the transit spell, paused to consider destinations. Halfway through the list, she also remembered her own suggestion to Celia. At that, she lifted her head and smiled. Maybe it was time to take her own advice. “Yeah. I know just the place.”

_Then go in light, Kiki. And don’t be a stranger._

Just like she remembered Percy doing once, she bent forward to kiss the trunk of the tree. Then she cast her spell, just in time for the clocktower across town to begin to chime. Its bells were still echoing when Keyleth stepped through and left Whitestone, greeting the glow of sunlight from halfway around the world.

In her wake, flowers bloomed.


End file.
